The Curse of Rollrock Island
by Lysi Nothuna
Summary: "I won't be taking this case." "Yes you will. You can't resist it. You can't resist this chance to go home." There are reasons why Sherlock doesn't bring up his past...and this case is going to reveal it all. Set after Season 2. No slash. A crossover with the Brides of Rollrock Island. You don't need to read it to understand. Rated T but subject to change.
1. Chapter 1

**The Curse of Rollrock Island**

By: Lysi Nothuna

**Author's Note: This is based upon the novel, **_**Sea Hearts, **_**or in the US, **_**The Brides of Rollrock Island **_**by Margo Lanagan**_**.**_** It's okay if you have never read the book to understand the story because I will explain a bit of the plot of **_**Sea Hearts **_**as my story goes on. I have the Holmes brothers come from Rollrock because both brothers fit the description of the sons of the selkies and men from Rollrock. The only thing I really tweaked from **_**Sea Hearts **_**is the time setting, i.e. I modernized it. Otherwise it is more or less canonically the same. This story is set after Reichenbach. Apologies in advance if any of the characters are a little OOC. Now enjoy!**

Chapter 1

_Light tore through the mirror above, cutting a ray through the dark green waters. The mass of black teardrops stayed together, calling to one another in their seal-song. The seals had no thoughts like a human did, they only had instinct. And their instinct told them to swim away from the bottoms of the human boats that floated above._

_But they didn't swim fast enough. The nets came down into the sea and took the seal pups. The ray of light became much brighter as they were pulled out of the sea. Human shouts, male ones, barraged the pups' ear drums and one by one each felt horrible pain as a knife cut through their skin, pulling the human out of them…_

Blues eyes flashed open in shock, pupils dilated in fear before adjusting to their normal size once more. A pale hand clutched at its owner's chest as the body tried to slow its massive heaves of breath. Then, those hands roamed to the body's head of curly black hair and ran through it as thought processes going at light speed ran through the person's mind.

"Sherlock? Are you alright in there? I heard you shout," a male voice said. It was muffled by the wooden door that blocked the two men from one another. The voice, Sherlock registered, belonged to none other than his best friend and flat mate John Watson. The fact that Watson had heard him shout from his upstairs bedroom said that he must have had quite the nightmare.

"F-fine. Just fine," Sherlock responded, his voice a little shaky.

"Was it about…you know…," John's voice trailed off. He couldn't bring himself to say _St. Bart's._ Even though it had been some time since Sherlock jumped and convinced the world he had died it still hurt John to bring it up.

"No. I don't think so. I don't remember it, really. Just go back to bed," Sherlock lied. He didn't dream about the fall, but he did remember it. And he honestly would have rather he dreamt about the fall than what he did dream about.

There was a silence, as if John was trying to decide if Sherlock was telling the truth. Then there was a weary sigh as he said, "Alright. Goodnight, Sherlock. Try not to have any more nightmares, yeah?" The sound of muffled footsteps going up stairs told the detective that his flat mate had retreated to his room.

_Why did I dream of that? _Sherlock thought, collapsing back onto the mattress. _I swear I deleted those memories. They are of no use to me anymore. _

Too tired to bother deleting the memories again, which was an exhausting process in itself, he decided to go back to bed and deal with it in the morning. But just as he went to close his eyes to go to sleep his cell thrummed and lit up on the nightstand next to him.

He checked the cell and went to go throw to the other side of the room. But then again, Mycroft wasn't the type to call in the middle of the night unless something nasty was up. And he hadn't had a good case in quite a while…

"What is it, brother dearest?" Sherlock asked dryly.

"Well first, it's Anthea," Mycroft's personal assistant corrected. "And second, he needs you to come in to the office."

"Why now? Can't it wait until a more reasonable hour?" Sherlock wondered. In all honesty, there wasn't such thing as a reasonable hour when it came to Sherlock due to his odd sleeping habits, but still.

"He said no. He would talk to you personally, but he's rather busy at the moment," she replied.

"Busy? At this late hour? What would keep _him_ up of all people at this hour?"

"If you come you'll find out," Anthea replied simply.

He groaned. "Fine. I'll be there in fifteen."

"Don't bring Dr. Watson, Mycroft's orders," she ordered before hanging up.

Snapping his phone shut, he gave a long and loud string of curses at his brother. _Best to get it out now before he finds a way to arrest me for it later. _After his little rant, Sherlock dressed in his signature outfit including the trench coat, scarf, and leather gloves. While spring was readily approaching the nation it was still cold enough to wear all three articles of clothing.

Just as Sherlock was about to quietly leave the apartment there was a slight commotion as his roommate clambered down the stairs. "Where are you going?" John asked, his voice garbled from sleep.

"Out," Sherlock curtly replied, halfway through the door. Before he completely exited he whipped around. "I was quiet. How did I wake you?"

"You're never quiet when you curse out your brother," John smirked. "And I'm coming with you."

"You can't. Mycroft's orders," Sherlock protested weakly. He knew John's loyalty to him would not take that answer but it was worth a shot.

"To hell with Mycroft!" John argued. "I'm already dressed anyway. When I heard you shout I assumed you were going out and got ready. Looks like I was right."

Sherlock groaned. "Fine." With that he swept away into the London pre-dawn morning, John in tow. The two hailed a cab, one of the very few on the streets, and took it to Mycroft's office.

"I said that Dr. Watson wasn't wanted," Anthea told Sherlock icily as the duo entered the building. She didn't even bother to look him in the eye as she texted away on her phone.

"Too bad. He's here. If Mycroft wants me he can also have John," Sherlock snapped. "Now where is he?"

"His office. He's expecting you. And a fair warning, though I don't think you deserve it, he isn't in one of his best moods."

"When is he?" Sherlock muttered to himself as the two marched deeper into the building to Mycroft's office.

"Do you have any idea what this is about?" John asked, struggling to keep up with his friend per usual.

"No clue. Most likely stolen missile plans again," Sherlock replied. They were in front of Mycroft's office now.

"You should probably…," John began before Sherlock turned the knob and opened the door, "knock."

"Greetings, dear brother," Sherlock said dryly. His brother was sitting at his desk, umbrella leaning against it. His face was lined in distress and Sherlock noticed something had hit Mycroft hard. This wasn't going to be a government case. It was going to be personal.

"Please, sit down. Dr. Watson, I must ask you to leave. This is a personal matter between us," Mycroft said, his voice tight.

"He stays," Sherlock said firmly, looking over to John who had begun to leave.

"Not this time, Sherlock," Mycroft replied coldly. "This time, it's just you I want. And you'll want it that way too, once I've explained to you everything."

John still hadn't moved and wasn't planning on it unless Sherlock said so. That's why it was slightly disappointing to hear Sherlock say, "Just wait with Anthea. I'll fill you in later." Looking dejected, he exited the office to go and wait with the assistant in question.

"What is this about, brother?" Sherlock spat. He didn't appreciate having to be in the same room alone with him, and the hour of the day wasn't helping.

"There's been a series of crimes I want you to investigate. A personal favor for me seeing I can't look into it myself," Mycroft began, not quite meeting his brother's eyes.

"I don't owe you any favors."

"One word, Sherlock: Reichenbach."

He rolled his eyes. "What crimes and where?"

Mycroft twiddled with his thumbs. "That's where things get…tricky. I can't tell you for sure exactly what's going on, that's why I called you in to investigate. But I do know _where_ the crimes are."

"And that is?"

The elder Holmes took a long, suffering, breath. "Rollrock."

Sherlock's eyes went wide for a millisecond as the memories of his dream flashed through his mind once more. "No. You can give me any case you want but that one. I'm not going back. Ever."

"Please. They need you," Mycroft pleaded.

"No, they don't. They showed that to me quite clearly when I was there last. I had to delete those memories, did you know that? Only a dream from last night made me capable of remembering. In fact, it's quite coincidental that I remember when you need me to go there, is it not?" Sherlock accused, his temper flaring.

"Like I had to do with your dreams," Mycroft laughed. Then he sobered. "But in all seriousness, you are the only one for the job. I would go, but I don't have what you have." His voice almost sounded wistful and the consulting detective noticed.

"What I have? You want what I have?" Sherlock asked, his voice rising. "I wish I could bloody well give it to you but I can't! I would give it to anybody, _anybody_ if I could! But I can't!"

"You and I both know that's not the only reason why you need to go," Mycroft began.

Sherlock was far too gone to listen to reason. "Need to go?! No, I don't need to go. You _want_ me to go. Well I'm sorry brother, but I won't be taking this case." He went to get up to leave but Mycroft suddenly struck out, grabbing his little brother's arm and holding it in place.

"Yes you will. You can't resist it. You can't resist this chance to go home. I know you say you want nothing to do with Rollrock but your heart and mind both say 'go'. Don't deny it," he told him, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper.

Sherlock yanked his arm out of his brother's grasp. "I can deny it and I will. Good day!" With that, he stormed out of Mycroft's office to find John and leave the place.

* * *

"So you come here often?" John began lamely after a few minutes of silence. Anthea looked up briefly from her phone, an amused smile on her face.

"I work here, remember?" she replied, looking back down at her phone.

"Oh, right," John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I guess I'll just wait for Sherlock to come get me." Damn! That made him sound like a teenage girl waiting on her father to pick her up from the school game! He groaned and put his head in his hands.

Anthea briefly looked up over phone once more before continuing to text. "Has it not been the same since St. Bart's?"

"Please don't bring that up," John moaned.

"Well?"

"No, it hasn't," he snapped at her after a moment of seething quietly.

"Thought so. You can't stop following him around like a puppy. I mean, you used to do that anyways, but now it's like you two are joined at the hip or something. I'm surprised you don't go in the bathroom with him when he goes to take a piss."

Fire-filled eyes made mental holes in her. "I do _not _follow him around all the damn time!" John hissed venomously.

"Yes you do," a different voice said. That voice belonged to none other than Sherlock Holmes. Not stopping to wait for his friend he said, "Come on, we're done here." With that he exited the building, the glass door slamming shut behind him.

Anthea raised an eyebrow at John as he stood up to follow. "This means nothing," he told her through gritted teeth. As he exited, she smirked successfully at her phone.

"So what happened?" John asked his friend once they got back to 221b Baker Street. Sherlock hadn't uttered a word the whole cab ride back and from the mild deduction skills he had picked up through his adventures could tell that something had shaken the detective. In fact, John had seen that look in Sherlock's eye only one other time before, during their Baskerville case. And that fact scared John too.

"Nothing. Family talk," Sherlock replied, plopping on the couch. He curled into a fetal position, his back to the world as he faced the cushion. He was in his pouting mode.

"I don't think family talk can get that bad, can it?" John question uncertainly, pouring him and Sherlock a cup of tea each.

"Apparently it can. I don't want the tea, by the way. Not thirsty."

John raised an eyebrow. "How about breakfast then?"

"Not hungry." Then Sherlock lapsed into silence as John ate breakfast.

* * *

"I'm going to work, Sherlock. Don't run off and do something stupid without me, okay?" Insufferable silence was the response. John just rolled his eyes, grabbed his coat, and left.

A few minutes later Sherlock snapped his eyes open. He hopped off the couch and made a beeline for his bedroom closet. Five minutes later he had packed enough clothes to last him two weeks before a wash was needed. Zipping his suitcase up, Sherlock wrote a quick note for John and left it on the coffee table for him to find.

_John,_

_I was serious when I said it was family matters. Unfortunately, my brother was right when he said I had no choice but to go. I'll hopefully be back soon. Don't come for me. Don't try to figure out where I went. Sorry._

_Sherlock_

* * *

When John came home for work he didn't find it odd at first when he met deafening silence. He had just assumed that Sherlock was still pouting about whatever Mycroft had told him. But he did find it odd that he wasn't on the couch, or on the armchair, or in the kitchen or his room. He did find it even more eerie when Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson said that they hadn't seen or heard from him all day. He didn't even bother calling Mycroft as the elder had a tendency to change phone numbers on him. And he did find it downright spooky when he found the note waiting patiently on the coffee table telling him not to come for him or look for him.

"Like hell I won't," John muttered angrily, crumpling up the note and tossing it in the rubbish bin. After doing a quick search for clues in Sherlock's room (as mentioned earlier, he had picked up a trick or two from his adventures with Sherlock) he discovered that Sherlock had packed for a fairly lengthy trip. His passport wasn't missing, so that meant that it wasn't out of the country. But, like always, he missed the most important deduction. And that was the little seal carved out of stone that normally rested on Sherlock's dresser was missing.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The ride to Cordlin was long, and it was full of plenty of time to meditate over what Sherlock was doing. He had lost it, yes, that is what he had decided. The fall had hurt him more than he thought. It made him insane. It was insanity to go back to that cursed island. He should just tell the cabbie to turn him around and go back to 221b Baker Street. To John, to Lestrade, to Mrs. Hudson, to Molly, to _normalcy_. But he wasn't one to go for normalcy, was he? He was always the unusual type. And that was saying something, considering where he came from.

Sherlock had forgotten where he had come from until the dream. He had deleted the memories, or, as the dream proved, pushed into the oldest, best hidden file cabinets in his mind palace. In fact, he had been convinced for years that he was from a hidden Old Money family or something along those lines. How else did his brother have the job he had?

_By his roots_, Sherlock thought darkly. He would bet everything he owned that Mycroft had got his job by not only through his brilliance but also the fact that he held one of England's darkest secrets in his blood. That dark secret was Rollrock Island.

Not many Britons knew of the island. The only ones who did were citizens of the island or of Cordlin and its nearby villages. If they weren't, they knew of the place by knowing people from either or from having a very high government occupation. Other than that, the island just didn't exist.

But to people who knew about it, it definitely did exist. It was a place most wished didn't. It was a dark place, teeming with curses and old magic. Another reason why Sherlock had hidden those memories. Magic was something that he didn't get along with. And it wasn't because he didn't believe. Oh no, he didn't have an option _but _to. That didn't mean he couldn't choose whether to accept it or not.

Sherlock felt awfully guilty about leaving John behind. This was his first case he had done alone since the two had become partners, not counting his dismantling of Moriarty's web. Already it wasn't feeling the same. There was a pang of loneliness about it, and a feeling of dread. It was almost as if the good doctor was his good luck charm, and without him he was doomed to fail.

"Here we are, Cordlin," the cabbie told him. Sherlock thanked and paid the man before getting out and grabbing his suitcase from the trunk.

The dust picked up by the receding vehicle settled and he could see the scene in front of him. Cordlin was a small town when compared to places like London. Compared to places like his hometown of Potshead it became a city rivaling the greats.

Cordlin citizens had been up since before dawn. Most of the men had been out on their boats for hours and a few had already come in with the morning's catch while the other men opened their stores for the day. Women had a few shops of their own, but mainly they tended to the house or helped their husbands behind the counter. Here men wore traditional suits for business and worn slacks and shirts for labor. Women wore dresses and it was very rare to find one wearing pants. It wasn't a religious thing, no; it was definitely because this place was lost in time. For all the citizens of Cordlin knew, there was no time difference between the early 1900s and now. The only exception was the technology which was roughly 1960s.

At least here there _was_ technology. Sherlock knew that as soon as he got on that boat for Rollrock he would be going back to a time before Edison. To a time where one didn't need a car because they never travelled farther than walking distance of the home and they never needed electricity because everyone in the town was hearing distance and a candle could give you the same amount of light as any lightbulb.

Compared to the rest of England, where citizens didn't look at you twice for being tall, black haired, and pale, he stuck out like a sore thumb in Cordlin. All of its citizens were more or less red haired, short, and stout. They had the weathered look of someone who grew up by the sea, yet it was not as distinct as that of an islander. There was also the fact that Cordliners could see an islander from a mile away.

Islanders used to fit the description of the Cordliners. But then the men began to wed and breed with the sea-maids and slowly its stock changed to that of what Sherlock and his brother looked like. All male, all black-haired (some had curly and some had straight depending on which parent you took after), and all had either the big dark eyes of the mam or the pale eyes of the dad.

So it came to no surprise to Sherlock when the crowds began to instinctively eye him distrustfully and moved out of the way when he walked too close. They parted like the Red Sea and he heard murmurs pass around about him.

"_An islander, definitely."_

"_But he took a London cab here. Didn't you see how modern it was?"_

"_Then he's going back. There's no way he's not from the Island."_

"_Stay away from him."_

"_I wonder what he wants."_

"_Maybe he just looks like one."_

"_You keep dreaming that."_

Sherlock made his way to the docks. The day was sunny and the waters reflected it, a dazzling array of light on the sparkling blue sea. Seagulls cawed at each other and tried to steal fish left unattended in the nearby market. The smell of salt and the tide hit his nostrils yet it wasn't unpleasant to him.

"Excuse me, are there any boats going to Rollrock today?" Sherlock asked a sailor who was busy unloading crates of fish that had been caught earlier that morning.

"One's heading out now. The _Highlander_. You hurry and they just might let you tag along, Islander," the sailor responded. He indicated with his body the boat in question. It was a ferry, but it was almost empty.

"Thanks." He scurried down the dock, his suitcase clacking on the wooden boards as it rolled behind him. He made it to the boat just as two sailors were about to pull up the gangplank.

"You going to Rollrock?" he checked.

"Yessir," one of the sailors replied. "You need to ferry over there?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No. I just wanted to hold you up. Of course I want to go to Rollrock!"

The sailor looked a little put off but said, "Get aboard then. Anyone going to the island doesn't have to pay. Not many ever go."

Sherlock did as told and put his suitcase in a secure place below deck so it wouldn't get wet before going above deck again. The boat had pulled out of the harbor and was gaining speed as it headed across the small channel to the island. The wind buffeted his black curls and sent his scarf whipping backwards around his neck. However, out on the sea the wind wasn't so cold or as tough as the wind on land. It never was for him. And as he gazed out on the watery depths that always matched his eyes he wondered if that was normal for other people or just for him.

_Probably for just me_, he mused.

* * *

"Mycroft, I really don't want to ask you again," John growled threateningly. He had been fruitlessly interrogating Sherlock's elder brother for the past five minutes. As soon as he had realized that was the only way he was going to get answers he had gone straight back to Mycroft's office and had barged in before Anthea could get security to stop him. For the next five minutes they had stayed in a stalemate, John asking questions and Mycroft refusing to answer.

"Then don't," Mycroft sneered. He had not moved an inch from his chair even though John had long since gotten far too close for comfort.

"Damn it all!" he cursed, slamming his fist on the desk. It made a resounding crack on the wood but John refused to wince or shake off the pain. "Why can't you tell me?"

"Like I said countless times earlier in this meaningless discussion; _Sherlock doesn't want you to know."_

"No, _you _don't want me to know. If he hadn't wanted to me to know he would have made sure I never tagged along to the meeting in the first place!" the doctor argued.

"He didn't know at the time what it was about. Now that he does, he wishes for you to not to get involved. And although I love to spite to my little brother like I know he loves doing to me, I must grant him this wish. It's about time he gets to do a case where he is most familiar," Mycroft smiled smugly and leaned back in his chair.

_Where he is most familiar? Did Mycroft just give me a hint to his location? _John thought in bemusement. Self-answering that as a yes, he decided to play along. Sinking his head in fake defeat he muttered, "Fine. I'll leave him alone. Just…make sure he stays safe."

As he turned to leave he heard Mycroft's soft reply. "I'll try. But when it comes to where he went…there are no promises."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

John sat in front of his laptop, the screen the only thing lighting the otherwise dark room. He had pulled up a search engine and was thinking for the right thing to type in to begin his search. Finally, he thought of something.

**Sherlock Holmes**

_**Search Results: 120,000 **_

The first result was Sherlock's website. Past that was John's blog, and past that were online articles about the cases that Sherlock had been involved with.

_Hmm…too broad a topic. I need to narrow it, _John mused. He typed another search.

**Sherlock Holmes history**

_**Search Results: 55,639**_

It was more or less the same sites before it branched off into more vague things that weren't what John was looking for. Sighing in irritation, he tried again.

**Sherlock Holmes birth records**

_**Search Results: 3,401**_

There were birth records for multiple Holmeses and Sherlocks, but none for a certain Sherlock Holmes. John groaned in defeat. "Really? You had to be born in a barn, Sherlock. Why don't you have any-," he began to rant before a light bulb went off in his head, "files."

Sherlock had taught him how to hack into British government websites just in case Sherlock was either too busy or too lazy to do it himself during a case if need be. "Just don't do it all the time. Then brother dear begins to notice and he'll make the security harder to get in," he had warned. "Of course, I can easily re-hack into it, but that wastes time." It was actually way easier than John had thought it would be and had to do so a couple of times to help Sherlock out on more delicate cases.

Once he had broken into the needed database, he typed in Sherlock Holmes. One result popped up and he clicked on it.

Revealed inside was Sherlock's complete file, composed entirely by Mycroft Holmes himself. It gave his date of birth, his age, his physical appearance, everything. Even, John noted, Sherlock's sexuality and relationship history. He made sure to remember it just in case he ever needed to blackmail the man. As he continued to scroll through the file he finally found what he was looking for, Sherlock's birthplace.

"Rollrock Island. Where the hell is Rollrock Island?" John muttered to himself as he got off the site and Googled the location. Nothing. Absolutely bloody nothing. John let out a shout of frustration and slammed his laptop shut. Mycroft was playing with him, surely. He must have known that John would look for Sherlock's birthplace and fake it in his file. And, for all he knew, Mycroft could have not even meant Sherlock's birthplace when he let the little sentence slip earlier. He could have meant a town where he lived, or his university, or something like that.

Despite these doubts and overwhelming thoughts, John's instinct told him that he had been on the right track. That the file was correct. That for some odd reason, Mycroft _wanted_ John in on this case, even if he wasn't going to flat out let him join. And John would be damned if he let Google halt his search.

* * *

The ferry bellowed out a loud horn, shaking Sherlock out of his trance. He had been staring at the sea for the past half-hour and his dry eyes told him he had barely blinked. The island was very close now, and the ferry was maneuvering to line up with the dock.

Sherlock went below deck again to grab his suitcase and reemerged just as the ferry began to make its shuddering last movements as it sidled up to the dock. The gangplank was lowered once the ferry anchored and Sherlock departed.

"Well, lookee here!" a voice crowed as Sherlock made his way off the dock and into the town of Potshead. The voice was matched up with a man a tad bit shorter than Sherlock. He had straight black hair pulled in a low ponytail that went barely past the nape of his neck and expressive brown eyes. "Sherlock Holmes is back!"

"Daniel Mallet," Sherlock greeted, shaking the man's hand. A true grin spread his features for the first time in weeks. "How have you been?"

"Oh, same old, same old. Potshead is a tad different due to lack of ladies, but not by much. What about you?" Daniel queried.

"I'm a consulting detective in London. That's why I'm here. Mycroft told me something shady was happening but didn't go into specifics," Sherlock answered, the unspoken question lingering in the air.

His old friend scratched his head. "Oh. That. Hmm. Let's go get a pint later and we can discuss it more, yeah?"

"Sure. I'm going to go home and unpack right now anyway. The place still exists, I presume?" he checked.

"Indeed. Hasn't been touched except by your brother when he visits."

Sherlock stopped walking down the only cobblestone street in the town and turned to face Daniel. "Mycroft comes here often?"

"All the time. At least once a month. He stays for about a weekend then leaves. Always mentions something about some minor government job back in London and keeping an eye on you. Based on his tales you are still the troublemaker I grew up with!" Daniel laughed.

"Interesting," Sherlock murmured and began his brisk pace again. The cobblestone began to fade to dirt and sand as he exited town and began to head towards the outskirts.

"Hey, I would keep going with ya, but I got work. Gotta get going. Tonight meet me at the pub." With that Daniel Mallet stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned around, heading back to town with his head bent slightly to block an incoming gale.

That was one thing Sherlock remembered vividly about Rollrock. The weather could change so fast during the colder seasons, especially in the unstable season of spring when summer is trying to fight its way in. Constantly the days would go back and forth between dreary and cold, sunny and cold, and sunny and warm. Today seemed to go from sunny and cold to dreary and cold.

The cloud cover became a thick grey blanket by the time Sherlock made it to the small cottage at the top of the hill about an eighth of a mile out of Potshead. Its windows were shuttered closed and the lawn was neat. It looked like Mycroft took good care of the place. He made it to the wooden door and opened it with ease. In Rollrock no one bothered to lock their doors because there was no realistic reason to steal from one another. It was such a small island that it would be impossible to commit a crime without getting caught, thus one of the reasons why Sherlock decided to take the case. What had been done that they couldn't even find the culprit on such an insignificant speck as Rollrock?

Sherlock stepped inside the small home and felt immediately warmer once out of the wind. The lack of light gave everything a grey hue, much like what the rest of the island looked like at the moment. The furniture was all pristine and looked lived in yet not. It reminded him of the reenactment places tourists would go to in order to experience 'what life was like' before they were ever concieved.

Childhood memories rushed through his mind as Sherlock's grey eyes scanned the room. In the corner by the fireplace was where he had sat and read during the winter months. The rocking chair right in front of the hearth was where his mam had loved to sit with her blanket. The wooden table in the adjacent kitchen was hewn by his father. The scorch mark on the wall that was partially rubbed away had been made with some cheap firecrackers that he and Mycroft had played with in the house one day while his parents were out. Of course Sherlock had gotten the blame for that. Perfect, lazy, Mycroft never did anything bad, not even then.

He climbed the crooked steps up to the next floor. There were two bedrooms upstairs. The one that Mycroft and he had shared and the one his parents had slept in. Sherlock entered his room; the door hinges creaking were the only noise other than the howling wind outside.

It still had the pale yellow walls that his mam had decided to paint the room in order to brighten it up. It worked, albeit only on sunny days. The other days made it look like stained parchment. The two twin beds still lay parallel to each other with the headboards to the east wall. The north wall had two large windows and a window seat that showed the beach and sea in the distance. Against the west wall was a toy chest. Sherlock betted that if he opened it, the toys would still be there. A thin layer of dust on top of it revealed that Mycroft hadn't even bothered to look at it when he visited, probably because he thought of himself as too mature for such nostalgia.

Sherlock set his suitcase down on the floor in front of his old bed, with the hand-made quilt from his childhood still on it (there was even that stain from where he had snuck a jelly pastry into his room one night), and opened it to reveal its contents. He pulled out clothes and put them in the dresser his father had bought for him and his brother at Cordlin one year that separated the two beds. Since electricity didn't work he had brought a solar powered charger, which he didn't think would be much use but brought it anyways just in case. He set it on his nightstand with his laptop. Sherlock had made sure to charge the laptop before leaving for Rollrock anyway.

His magnifying glass was in his coat pocket like always and he didn't bother to pack toiletries. Sherlock figured he could just buy what he needed later. A finishing touch in his unpacking was the little seal figurine that he placed on the windowsill next to a collection of other sea-life figurines and shells that hadn't been moved since he had left all those years ago.

Once he was done unpacking, Sherlock clambered back down the stairs and out of the house. He knew there would be no food in the kitchen (the sea air would spoil it quickly) so he didn't bother to check for any.

The wind had picked up even more steadily since he had entered the house and with it carried the sound of the sea. It was like a sonata to him, and for a moment, just a small one, he could understand what it meant. But he noticed and quickly shook that off. Sherlock was not going to go back to that situation again. Not ever. That was behind him. Wasn't it?

**AN: Sorry for the wait, I have never been really one to make regular updates anyways and now with school starting again it may be even longer hiatus periods from here on out. Thank you to all who have reviewed, favorited, followed, or even read my story! Please note: I love seeing people's input! Give me suggestions! If I like them, I might just contact you and maybe together we can figure out a way to incorporate it into the story! Also, I need a beta so anyone willing please PM me! **

**~Lysi Nothuna**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Wholeman's was the only general store in town. It sold goods in the front and if you went through the swinging doors behind the counter you would enter the local pub. This was where Sherlock and Daniel had agreed to meet. However, Daniel was still at work, whatever work was, giving Sherlock some free time to stock up on supplies.

Sherlock entered the building. It was dim, lit only by the windows and a few light bulbs. Wholeman's was the only place with electricity on the whole island and for valid reason. If something happened on either Great Britain or the island a message could be sent to and from Wholeman's. The message was sent by telegraph, but it worked.

Another black haired man sat behind the counter. He looked up from the figures that he was doing and Sherlock's eyes met eyes the same color of his own. If a non-Rollrock citizen saw them, they would assume that they were twins. However, some things told them apart such as facial structure and height. The one at the counter was significantly shorter.

"Is Mr. Wholeman no longer owner?" Sherlock asked, breaking the silence.

The man harrumphed in amusement as he wrote some more figures down. "You're one of us, Sherlock Holmes, yet you are no better than any other outsider. At least your brother is better with names."

Sherlock as taken aback by the man's gruff attitude but didn't show it. Instead, he mentally opened a dusty file cabinet and began pulling out files with pictures of children that looked similar to him when he was little. He aged the pictures to adulthood and began dismissing them until he found the right one.

"Ah," Sherlock said, eyes lighting up. "You're Rab Wholeman, Mr. Wholeman's son."

"That's the one."

Sherlock smirked to himself at his success. However, he quickly began to scowl as Rab continued to speak.

"I knew your brother would send you here. He probably thought you could help. But guess what, Sherlock Holmes? You weren't needed before, and you definitely aren't needed now. So why don't you go back on the boat and return to London, mainlander," he spat contemptuously.

Sherlock, incensed he may have been, was able to keep his cool and replied, "I'm afraid that there won't be any boats for a week, at least. A nasty storm system is supposed to come through, effectively stopping all naval travel. If you were a 'mainlander' you would know that."

"Did you just come to gloat? I already get that enough from Mycroft," Rab seethed.

"No. In fact, I came here to buy some supplies. I would go elsewhere, but unfortunately you are the only general store on the island."

"That I am," the clerk conceded reluctantly. "Normally, I would deny people like you my wares but I won't turn away a paying customer. Get what you need and go."

Sherlock inclined his head, the closest to a 'thank you' he was willing to give, and began to browse the store. He kept to himself the fact that the storm system was to hit the English Channel, not the North Sea, blocking naval trade but not at Rollrock. Rab would realize this eventually, but for now the partial lie was effective for its use.

The store barely had a selection, only selling the most basic necessities. There were some more goods than before since Rollrock had lost almost all of the opposite gender who had made items like breads, clothes, and soaps. Nothing beat the quality of sea-maid products but the cheap replacements Wholeman's had would do.

Finally, after about ten minutes of tense silence as Sherlock found what he needed—the tenseness sourcing from Rab's unwavering glare—he approached the counter to check out.

Rab rang up the items as Sherlock pulled out a leather wallet and withdrew some cash. He placed the money on the counter and grabbed his groceries without a word. As he went to leave Rab's voice carried over to him.

"You forgot something!" Sherlock turned around and saw him hold a small box in the air. He narrowed his eyes and walked back over to Rab.

"I didn't purchase that," Sherlock said slowly.

"I know, but I am not letting you leave without it anyway." He tossed the box to Sherlock who deftly caught it.

"Bandages," Sherlock murmured, examining the box.

"Yes. You know what to do with them. I'll know you didn't if incidents start happening again."

Sherlock nodded silently, knowing exactly what Rab was talking about. He put the box in his bag of groceries and left, entering the cold air. Instinctively shivering, he pulled his coat tighter around him. But Sherlock wasn't shivering due to the cold. No, his chill came from deep within him. It was a haunting feeling of nostalgia…

And hate.

Cold, raw hatred.

And, although Sherlock would ever admit it aloud, it terrified him. Hatred was an emotion unfamiliar to him. Annoyance, irritation, sometimes even anger, but almost never hatred. He hadn't even hated Moriarty. On the contrary, he had respected the man, much like opposing generals respect each other in war. Hatred just didn't come naturally to him.

But that didn't stop the feeling from nearly overwhelming Sherlock. The feeling caused him to see red and want to turn around to go beat up Rab Wholeman for insulting him like he did earlier. Sherlock willed himself to regain self-control over his emotions, going so far as sitting down on a boulder and take a breather half-way home to strengthen his will.

As his breaths slowed down back to a normal pattern and the red haze slowly dissipated, one thought kept echoing in his—for once—otherwise empty mind.

_What is happening to me?_

* * *

John stared at the bullet-ridden wall of his flat, deep in thought. Google proved fruitless, as did Yahoo!, Bing, and other numerous search engines. Mycroft would tell him no more than he already did and John wanted to leave as little of a trace on the government files as possible. He had turned the flat upside down yet Sherlock had not left behind any more clues. Now John was at a loss.

"Hello, John. I thought I'd bring you some tea," Mrs. Hudson's voice wafted over from the door. He turned his head to see her walk in and enter the kitchen like she owned the place, which she technically did. "Nothing beats a good cuppa when in a rut." Her voice sounded as bright as ever, but John heard undertones of worry and sadness. John wasn't sure if Sherlock forgot, but the fall hurt more than just his blogger. He disappearing again so soon after coming back was devastating to not only John but Mrs. Hudson, not to mention Lestrade and Molly.

"Thanks." The doctor didn't want tea, but he figured he could humor her for both their sakes.

"Have you heard from him?" she asked as she busied herself with the tea and cakes. There was so much hope in Mrs. Hudson's voice…

"Sorry," John replied, giving a weary shake of his head. She nodded, not saying anything. No words needed to be spoken. The disappointment was so great it could be felt.

"I think I may have a lead though," he added, a tinge of hope in his voice. "Mycroft hinted that Sherlock might be at his birthplace."

"Where's that?" There was hope again in her voice too. Mrs. Hudson walked over and handed him a mug of tea and a plate with some cakes on it.

"Rollrock Island," he answered, forcing himself to eat one of the small cakes. Mrs. Hudson came back from the kitchen with her own tea and sat on the armchair opposite of John.

"I've never heard of it," she admitted, taking a sip from her tea.

"Neither has the Internet," John said dryly, drinking a bit of his own tea.

"Hmm…Have you brought it up with Greg?" she asked. "Perhaps he knows. The Scotland Yard knows a lot."

"Might be worth a try. Thanks, Mrs. Hudson."

"No problem, dearie," Mrs. Hudson smiled. She got up and left, giving an affectionate pat on John's shoulder.

After she was no longer in sight, John rang Scotland Yard. The phone rang and rang until finally someone picked up. "New Scotland Yard, Sergeant Sally Donovan speaking."

"Sally, this is John." He groaned mentally in his head. Sally wouldn't help if it involved Sherlock, let alone get him connected to Lestrade.

"Oh." Her voice went cold like he expected. "What did the freak do now?"

"Nothing," John lied, his voice strained in irritation. "Nothing. Can you just patch me through to Lestrade?"

"He's not here," Sally replied stiffly. Then her voice relaxed slightly. "If the freak isn't behind this then what can I help you with?"

"Can you look for a Rollrock Island in your database for me?" he wondered.

She was suddenly skeptical again. "Case related?"

"No. I just found an old photo of a family member of mine and it was labeled to be at Rollrock Island. The Internet had nothing on it. I thought maybe Scotland Yard might." John prayed that she couldn't tell he was lying through his teeth.

There was a silence as Sally thought. "I'm not supposed to do databank searches for civilian use…"

"Please, Sally. This…means a lot to me," John pleaded.

She sighed. "Fine. But you owe me one. Wait a sec while I dig it up." Music began playing as John was put on hold. A few minutes later the music stopped. "It was hard to find, but I found it. It's a very small island off the coast by the town of Cordlin. It's supposed to be uninhabited since the 60s and people aren't supposed to be on it."

"Why do you say 'supposed'?" John questioned, rubbing his head in confusion.

"That's the thing. The official statements say that no one's been there since '62. Apparently the military had a small lab there and was doing nuclear testing just like every other nation was doing during that time. One day there was an explosion and killed everyone. Rollrock is still classified as dangerous and no one is allowed there. But for some odd reason I am finding naval reports saying that ships went out to sea with full loads of cargo and returned empty. Some of these records date back to just a few weeks ago," Sally explained.

"Suggesting that they are doing trade with someone on the island," he concluded. "Now why would someone fake official documents like that?"

"Dunno," Sally replied. "My best bet is that freakzoid number two knows. Sneaky little bugger. Probably is listening to this as we speak."

"Probably," John sighed. Sally had gone through her dose of patience for him for today. "Alright, well thanks for the help."

"You owe me big time," she reminded. With that the line went dead. The doctor sat silently for a minute before wordlessly reopening his laptop. Clicking on his Internet browser, he searched Cordlin.

A zoomed in map of England appeared, showing a chunk of land on the eastern coast. A small dot lay right on the coastline, labeled Cordlin. Silently, he reclosed the laptop and set it back down on the coffee table.

Like a tightened coil being released, John jumped into the air, whooping with joy. Finally, a lead!


End file.
